


they can't make me tell you goodbye

by swimthewholeriogrande



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Betrayal, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Refuge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: What happens when Crutchie sees Jack leave him behind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from time quartet in tuck everlasting (which i love)

The only thing Crutchie was thinking, apart from a constant stream of oh nos, was how on Earth had this all gone so wrong? His eyes were still dazzled by the flash of Plumber's camera, the possibility of something bigger and better than themselves - and then he didn't even see it begin until it had already started, Wiesel's backup and Romeo sprawling under a bull's baton. 

He saw Jack, untouchable, light up with fear like there were sparklers under his feet. He saw Davey, eloquent and too intelligent for this kind of life, stuttering and then taking a solid kick to the chest, Les scattering out of the way as his big brother fell to the floor. Everything had become nightmarish. He'd never felt more cumbersome in the middle of a brawl with only one free hand and one working leg, but he was well-practised at beating the shit out of people with his crutch - he was no damsel in distress. He could hold his own.

Still, the second that first punch to land hit Crutchie dead in the eye, the rioting around him started to waver into a dizzying hum. He staggered, unable to support his weight on his bad leg as his crutch clattered behind him, and tripped over his own useless foot to the ground. He could see one of the Delancys standing over him - God knows which one, his vision was whiting out - and barely had the presence of mind to flinch before his own crutch came down hard on his stomach.

He could hear Snyder - Jack, where was Jack, he had to keep Snyder away from Jack - but he could have been saying anything. Crutchie screamed his throat raw, a noise that could have come from any animal, when he was hit again, and tried to roll away, but every bone protested. His whole body sang out with pain. Somewhere to his right he saw Specs catch a bat to the face, glasses shattering, and Albert howling and rolling from a boot on his hip.

Dazed, Crutchie was barely aware of what was happening to him until metal clinched around his wrists tight enough to bruise. Jack's name tore out of his throat like a prayer. He started to writhe, but hands closed around his bad leg and sent fire up to his thigh and he had to fight the urge to go limp - he was begging. He could hear himself begging and he was disgusted with himself. He felt like a little child again in the orphanage, raging with polio, ankle twisting and aching more and more everyday. 

Jack, blurry in the haze, got pushed into a cart and turned his head. Crutchie met his eyes and saw nothing behind them, just a feral fear that swallowed up everything around them. He couldn't find anything he recognised of his best friend there; it was like looking in a black hole.

"Jack!" he rasped one last time. Jack saw Snyder and a shudder ran through him, visible from feet away. Crutchie was yanked around and as he felt the rough pavement scratch and catch on his clothes, he saw Jack run away, leaving him behind.

Crutchie watched him go, vision starting to fail. He reached out and tried to get a handhold in the ground until his fingers failed, his head thumped to the ground, and he let himself fade, so sick and sore with the weight of losing love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took a while but this drivel has returned

Crutchie woke up choking back dirt, facedown with his nose pressed into the ground like he'd collapsed and no one had much minded to turn his head to breathe. He jerked, sucked in a breath full of ash and grime, feeling it smear across his filthy face. "Street rat," someone from his past murmured in the back of his mind, and he licked his cracked lips, unsure of where or when he was.

The memory came back in jagged fragments; the strike and resulting riot, the pain of his crutch against his side - where was it now? - and then Jack's face, Jack running like he'd never met Crutchie in his life. Crutchie felt a sick drag when he realised the pain in his wrists was from tightly clasped cuffs; he was in the Refuge. 

He finally raised his head and looked around. There was bunks all around him, full of snoring, skinny children with limbs hanging out, full to bursting with captives. There was a sliver of cold grey moonlight on the window slats; it had to be the middle of the night. 

Crutchie braced his bound hands on the floor and pushed himself up. Everything in him screamed in protest, and he bit back a howl when his bad leg dragged slightly. Looking back he saw his pant leg torn open to the knee, and what was visible was a mess of pattern bruising. The twist of his ankle looked even more severe than before. It was like the Delanceys had treated it like some kind of tug of war rope.

And his crutch - he saw then it was a few feet away splintered into two pieces like it had been broke over someone's knee, or maybe Crutchie's head judging on the lump he could feel forming. 

"Hey," he whispered hoarsely to the nearest sleeping boy he could see, "hey, could ya -"

"Ssh!" 

Crutchie was cut off by at least three other inhabitants of the tiny room. It made him wince, years of knowing when to shut his goddamn mouth kicking instinctively into gear. He lowered his lower half back to the ground, trying hard to pretend he wasn't cowering, and let his cheek rest on the floor again. He felt the handcuff on his right wrist break skin, and didn't bother to move. What was the point? His best friend had thrown him to the wolves. The strike would fail. There was nothing for him outside this wretched place. 

\- 

When Specs called at the Refuge window for Crutchie the morning after the riot, it took three tries for a single boy to wake up. They all moved weak and heavy, malnutrition sucking the energy out of their lives. When Specs asked one of them to call for "a kid with a broke-up leg" it took the boy three tries to hop back down from the ledge. 

The boy came back minutes later. "He can't come up." he said plainly. "He can't move." 

Specs' knuckles went white around the window bars he was clutching. "What?" 

"He ain't able t'stand." The kid held out a scrap of paper in a thin and dirty hand. "He said give this to Jackie." 

Specs took it. He tried to look past the messenger to find Crutchie, but the room was full of filthy, motionless bodies in the dawn light. His friend could have been any of them - dear, gentle Crutchie, another depressing statistic in Plumber's articles. 

Specs' face was grim as he made his way back to the lodging house. What was Jack gonna say about this?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheeky canon divergence

God, Crutchie was tired.

The bulls had flushed out the Refuge at least an hour ago, but he couldn't move. Some of the boys - as eager to escape the prison as rats abandoning a sinking ship - had halfheartedly said to tell a newsie he was still there, but Crutchie was pretty sure no one was coming back. He'd tried to crawl, he'd tried to hop, he'd tried to fix the broken crutch, but he couldn't get more than a foot before his bad leg spasmed and locked with pain.

So he was lying in the quiet, slumped onto a rock-hard bunk, waiting. Alone and useless. He'd never felt more like what the Delanceys had called him, a dumb crip, so why would Jack bother coming? Crutchie was easily replaced by someone stronger and smarter and faster; someone better.

When familiar hands touched his shoulder, waking him from a shallow sleep, he thought he was dreaming and didn't bother opening his eyes. "Not now," he groaned, "wanna just sleep."

"Crutchie, wake up."

Crutchie reluctantly looked up and saw Jack with a black eye and inky hands and the most worried look on his face and Crutchie knew he was still asleep, because Jack wouldn't be worried about him. "You ain't here." he said plainly to Jack - or technically to himself. "You ain't coming."

Now Jack looked like he was gonna cry; more and more unreal. "It's me, pal. C'mon, we should go -"

Crutchie felt hands slip under him to lift and - no! He wasn't gonna be carried ever, even in a dream. He reeled back as much as he could with his limited movement and socked Jack across the jaw and, to his surprise, sent him sprawling. The yelp it produced was real. This was real. 

"Jack - Jack?"

"Helluva left hook." Jack grunted, rubbing his face. "I deserved that."

Crutchie tried to sit up, so confused, and Jack was back in an instant to soothe. "Don't go nowhere. Your leg don't look so hot."

He was barely listening. "Why are you here?" 

Jack grimaced, pain across his face like a flash of fire. "Romeo heard you were still here. I came to - bring you home, Crutch." He was desperate suddenly, grabbing Crutchie's hand with an almost religious fervour. "I never - I never meant t'leave you, I swear, I just saw Snyder and..." He let out a rough sob that made Crutchie wince. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Crutchie stayed quiet for a minute, watching his best friend cry and thinking hard. It was so easy to put Jack on a pedestal - first as an enigmatic 'king of thieves' and then as a charismatic strike organiser - but he was still a child really at seventeen, a child on the cusp of becoming a man thrust into an adult's world. Crutchie looked at their intertwined hands, seeing Jack's bitten nails, the twine tied around one of his wrists, and thought for the first time that maybe Jack Kelly was as human as he was.

"Get me outta here." Crutchie said finally. "Or are you lame as well as thick?"

Jack raised his head, cheeks still shining but with a smile now. "And how's you suppose I do that? You weight ten ton, pal, you and that iron leg."

Crutchie sighed, relenting to the cramp running up and down his thigh. "Don't tell no one," he warned, and put his arms around Jack's neck.

It'd maybe be a while before Crutchie fully forgave Jack, but least he understood his friend's near fatal lapse of judgement. Next time he saw the mindless fear in Jack's eyes - there would be a next time, he knew - he had the tools to handle it; same ones he used for all the other boys, now that he knew that this one wasn't so different. 

Jack carried him out of the Refuge, spun them around once in the sun - so painfully young - and carried Crutchie home.

**Author's Note:**

> new story?? what do we think  
> havent decided if jack/crutchie is platonic oe not so itll be surprise for me too  
> please comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
